


A Dream of Sea and Stone: Theon at Dragonstone

by turncloakforwhat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, game of thrones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 17:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turncloakforwhat/pseuds/turncloakforwhat
Summary: Theon Greyjoy tries to pass the time at Dragonstone, while he attempts to organize a rescue for Yara.I tried to imagine what Theon was up to in Episodes 5 and 6 of Season 7.





	A Dream of Sea and Stone: Theon at Dragonstone

**Author's Note:**

> So can we pretend sweetly  
> Before the mystery ends?  
> I am a man with a heart that offends  
> With its lonely and greedy demands  
> There's only a shadow of me, in a manner of speaking I'm dead  
> “John My Beloved”- Sufjan Stevens
> 
> Everybody says that time heals everything  
> Oh in the end.  
> But what of the wretched hollow?  
> The endless in-between?
> 
> Are we just going to wait it out?  
> ¬-“Wait it Out,” -Imogen Heap
> 
> .  
> I’m light as a feather  
> I’m bright as the Oregon breeze  
> My black shroud  
> Frightened by my feelings  
> I only wanna be a relief  
> No, I’m not a go-getter  
> The demon had a spell on me  
> My black shroud  
> Captain of my feelings  
> The only thing I wanna believe  
> -“Should Have Known Better”- Sufjan Stevens  
> .

Theon  
“Well, where did she go?” Theon asked.  
He could feel the Ironborn behind him, shifting in the sand.  
Theon glanced beyond Jon and didn’t recognize the old man standing nearby, but he knew the foreign girl from before. Her name escaped him. Beyond them, a few Dothraki sulked on the perimeter, long, cruel weapons in their hands. He wondered if the savages would listen if Jon told them to slit his throat.  
He had only been gone a few days and everything had already changed. He felt himself instinctually looking for Yara, but she wasn’t there. I ran.  
The Dothraki probably wouldn’t be needed, he decided. Jon would probably just slit his throat, himself, he thought. No, he would probably strike my head off, he realized. He hadn’t particularly taken much comfort in Jon’s apparent lack of desire to kill him. Words are wind. He might wake up in the middle of the night to find Ghost leering toothily over him. Where is Ghost? Most likely dead. Like Lady. Like Greywind. Like Smiler.  
He looked up and realized Jon had been saying something. He nodded like he understood, but he hadn’t heard a thing. The ocean was roaring in his ears.  
Jon looked impatient. What does he want from me?  
“Well,” said Theon, “when do you think she will be back?”  
Jon did not have an answer.  
“We are not sure,” said foreign girl in her strange, clipped cadence, “but of course, you are welcome to stay here until she returns. She was devastated to hear of what happened to the fleet.”  
“We will return to our ship,” said Theon. He was not so much a fool he was going to share a roof with another Snow. Especially Jon.  
“Nonsense,” sputtered Harrag, the most oaf-like and loud Ironborn, from behind him, “the ship needs repairs. And supplies. It’s in no state to stay in. And we want to stay here.”  
Jon raised his eyebrows and Theon felt his jaw tightening. It’s not worth fighting over, he thought. Doors have locks, Greyjoy.  
“Very well,” he said icily, without turning away from Jon, “see that you attend to the repairs. We need to be ready to leave the moment we get more reinforcements.”  
Harrag grunted at him. Theon decided he would worry about the Ironborn another day. They were slightly less likely to kill him in his sleep than Jon.  
Jon had never really told him whether Sansa was alright. He assumed that meant she was. He considered asking again, but decided that it wouldn’t really do much good.  
The old man, who had an air of overwhelming sturdiness cleared his throat, “Well, should we go inside?” he asked.  
Jon finally seemed to relax a little, and broke his gaze from Theon’s. He strode away and up the beach, without another word, his cape billowing out behind him. Jon had always had a flair for sorrowful dramatics, and Theon noted that at least that hadn’t changed much.  
The rest of Jon’s party followed him, Dothraki included, and Theon watched them go, not without a sense of relief.  
He turned back to the Ironborn, who still stood aimlessly around the row-boat.  
“Alright,” he said, “wait for my orders—” and try not to make fools of yourselves, he was going to add, but he didn’t. As it was, his words were left hanging in the air, and didn’t sound particularly commanding, “—and if for any reason, Euron’s fleet appears, come find me immediately.” It was a concern that had been nagging at him all day.  
“But of course,” said Harrag with what had come to be a signature cynicism, despite the fact that there was nothing to be sarcastic about that Theon could see. He realized tiredly he was probably missing something.  
“We don’t need you here,” continued the oaf, “why don’t you run along after your little Northern friends?”  
Were the rest of these men mutes? Theon wondered. Who had named this man the leader?  
Theon knew he should do something. This couldn’t continue. It wasn’t going to work. How was he supposed to win against Euron if---  
He was lost in his thoughts again, and Harrag was squinting at him. It made him think of Dagmar. He had smiled until the very end. No one could be trusted.  
Theon suddenly felt very tired.  
“I’m going to the castle,” he said curtly, “I’m sure they will have accommodations for you as well. You know where to find me.”  
He turned away and resisted the urge to look back. The sand made striding surprisingly difficult and he wondered how exactly Jon had pulled off his glorious exit.  
\--  
It was a surprisingly long trek from the beach to the castle. Dragonstone was a fearsome thing, all dark stone and decrepit dragons, hewn out of the dark stone. Stannis Baratheon had lived there once, and before him, it had been the seat of House Targaryen, before their fall. By the time Daenerys got there, it had been out of use for a long time. Yara had found the whole thing fascinating—poking around dilapidated corridors and prying open secret trap-doors. Theon had just been glad when they left—he hadn’t liked the cobwebs and rubble. It made him think of Winterfell.  
When he finally made it to the castle, he realized several things, the first being that he was still wearing his saltwater-soaked clothes from Euron’s attack. The Ironborn hadn’t had any spares or they hadn’t offered them to him. The second was that something was incredibly wrong—either he needed to eat or he needed to sleep. He wasn’t really sure, but he was in danger of collapsing on the poorly swept stone floors of the entryway.  
He looked around for someone, but the castle was eerily quiet, but for the shriek of dragons somewhere in the distance. Theon was confused—did the Queen not take her creatures with her? With no one to consult, and no energy to hunt someone down, he eventually found his way back to his old room. Yara had been next door. It was just as he left it, though the mattress had been stripped. There was no fire, and the room was terribly cold, despite the general warmth of the air outside. Theon sat down on the bed. I’ll just catch my breath, he thought, and then I’ll go see what exactly is going on.  
When he woke up, it was dark out. The windows were tinted in the last dark bruise of twilight before full night set on.  
Theon had a brief moment of panic, unsure of where he was or how much time had passed. He sat up too quickly and his head spun. His mouth was very dry.  
Theon stumbled out of the dark room and into the hallway, which was surprisingly bathed in light. He wasn’t really sure where to go for water. This enraged him for some reason, and the rage was enough to blindly transport him to a kitchen, staffed by dull-eyed Dothraki cooking stews which made his stomach turn with the very smell. He drank a great deal of water and, feeling increasingly as if the very castle might swallow him up if he stayed, flung himself out of the castle and into the darkness.  
The water whispered gently in the darkness of cool sand and shining scales, and Theon found himself wandering aimlessly along the beach, letting the tide nibble at his boots. The moon hung in a sharply curved crescent from the sky, but but for that, the darkness was all consuming. It was much warmer here than in the North or even in Pyke, which was slightly disorienting. He realized Jon had still been wrapped in furs, ready for the Northern snow.  
Occasionally, the silhouettes of two of Daenerys’ dragons tangled against the moon, mangling its light for a minute, before they fell shrieking back into the dark. The third was missing. The Queen must have taken him, he thought, trying to quench the absurdity of monster riding monarchs, and failing. It wasn’t as if dragons had never lived, but it just so very strange, and perhaps stranger was everyone else’s nonchalance.  
He hadn’t even really broached the subject with Yara, because she had seemed so casual about it. Yes, this tiny Targaryen Queen wants to invade Westeros. She has an army of Dothraki savages and freed slaves, and yes, also three dragons. What exactly is there not to understand, Theon?  
Theon realized he still wasn’t entirely sure where exactly Daenerys had gone. Clearly, it had to do with war. The war. The castle had emptied out of soldiers. And why exactly was Jon Snow here? Theon realized he had little idea of what was going and little idea who exactly he should ask.  
You shouldn’t have fallen asleep, he chided himself, with overwhelming guilt. You shouldn’t be out here, wandering around like a lost child. Go take command and ask questions and get your sister back.  
“Theon?”  
Theon jumped.  
It was Jon.  
He has come to kill me, Theon realized, still reeling from shock. He did not have his sword, and even if he did, he wouldn’t win against Jon. It wouldn’t have bothered him so much, if not for Yara.  
“Jon,” said Theon thickly. He wondered, not for the first time, just what Euron would do to Yara. Every time he tried to remember her face, that last time, with the fire falling around them and Euron’s axe to her throat, he found he couldn’t remember her at all. Had she been frightened? Had she hated him? He couldn’t remember. The more he thought about it, he couldn’t remember Euron’s face either. Only Ramsay’s.  
It was enough to turn Theon’s spine cold, but Ramsay wasn’t here now. Jon was. And Jon was going to kill him.  
“Jon,” he said again, trying to keep his voice steady, “What are you doing here?”  
“I could ask the same of you,” said Jon from the darkness.  
“Walking,” said Theon, “Just walking.”  
“I came out to watch the dragons,” said Jon.  
“Oh,” said Theon.  
“Do you know their names?” asked Jon, “I know the big one is Drogon.”  
What kind of nonsense was this? He’s toying with me, thought Theon.  
He cleared his throat, “Well, isn’t one named after Rhaegar? And the other—her brother?—her other brother? Viserys? Viserion?”  
“I left Ghost back at Winterfell,” said Jon wearily, “Mayhaps I should have brought him.”  
“H-how is he?” asked Theon. It was a ridiculous question, but Jon seemed to like it.  
“He’s gotten enormous,” said Jon, “still loyal, though. I didn’t think he’d like the boat…Or most of the people.”  
Like me, thought Theon. Greywind used to know Robb’s foes from his friends. He would snarl at those he didn’t trust. Greywind had never snarled at Theon, though, so he must not have been that intuitive after-all.  
“You’d think after the things I’ve seen,” Jon said musingly, “that I wouldn’t find dragons so strange, but I do.”  
“They are very strange,” Theon affirmed with a touch of impatience.  
To his horror, he realized Jon must have picked up on it.  
“I’m not going to stab you in the back in the dark, if that’s what you’re afraid of, Greyjoy,” said Jon, “If I were to kill you, it would be in daylight. And it wouldn’t be after I said I wouldn’t.”  
Theon didn’t know how to reply to that, so he didn’t.  
After a bit, he said, “Why did you come here? I didn’t think you’d leave Winterfell.”  
“We needed dragonglass,” said Jon, “Obsidian. There’s a great deal of it here, so I came to ask the Queen if I could mine for it.”  
“Why?” said Theon.  
“It’s a long story,” said Jon, “I’ll tell you another time, or you’ll find out soon enough.”  
The whole thing made Theon feel uneasy. He wished Jon would just tell him, but he knew better than to push the subject.  
“So, Sansa—“ he said carefully, “is in control of the North in your absence?”  
“She is,” said Jon, “She’s very happy about that.” He laughed.  
“I would imagine,” said Theon.  
“She’s doing well, Theon,” said Jon.  
“I’m glad,” said Theon with a great deal of feigned nonchalance, “Tell her I said hello, only if she asks, that is. Actually, probably best not to.”  
“She’ll be happy to hear you are well,” said Jon with an overwhelming formality.  
Theon wasn’t particularly happy with the direction the conversation was going. He wasn’t sure what exactly he would do or how he would feel if Jon slipped into some grandiose retelling of how he took back Winterfell, or worse, he expected some grandiose retelling of how--  
“Where exactly is Daenerys?” he asked.  
“She is ambushing Lannister forces somewhere farther South,” said Jon.  
“Why didn’t you go with her?”  
Jon laughed again, “I’m currently confined to the island.”  
“What?” said Theon, not understanding.  
“There are currently some tensions regarding my claim to the North,” said Jon, “nothing I’m too worried about.”  
In the distance, a dragon suddenly screeched and plunged into the sea, only to emerge moments later, holding something that was still flipping and flopping in resistance to it’s upcoming consumption.  
“I hear they eat people,” said Theon, deciding this was a safer topic than Jon’s disagreements with Daenerys.  
“I hear that too,” said Jon, “But I don’t know it for a fact.”  
“Neither do I,” said Theon. He suspected it was true.  
“Well, don’t get eaten,” Jon said, “Your sister needs you. And Ser Davos is expecting me. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”  
Jon faded back into the darkness and was gone before Theon could think of a fitting reply. Theon realized he still hadn’t properly seen his face. He wondered what exactly Jon was doing—at Dragonstone, and at the beach in the middle of the night, and with him.  
Theon wondered if he should try to go sleep. Except for when he was truly exhausted like earlier that day, he didn’t sleep much, and when he did, he woke up a lot, and that was worse. Theon didn’t particularly want to back to the dark room and stare at the dark ceiling, waiting for light. So he walked.  
\--  
The morning came warm and bright, sunshine spilling through the thickly paned windows, and highlighting the dust that seemed to dance throughout the halls of Dragonstone. Theon found himself wishing he had tried to sleep. He felt off-kilter and uneven. Even the ground felt unsteady.  
He found himself checking repeatedly for Harrag’s ship—his ship--afraid that the Ironborn would have made off in the middle of the night. He realized his didn’t even know or couldn’t remember the ship’s name, or for that matter, the ship he had been on before, or the names of any of the other Ironborn, or…  
You need to calm down, Greyjoy. He told himself, Theon. This isn’t helping.  
The ship was still there. He could go down right now and find out it’s damn name if it really mattered, but it did not. What mattered was when Daenerys would return, whether she had ships to lend him, and if she would.  
From lack of anywhere better to go, Theon went back to his room, which to his surprise had been better prepared for human occupation, some time in the night—though whether for him or someone else, he didn’t know. Despite this uncertainty, he washed his face and fiddled aimlessly in the fireplace for a bit. It was then that he realized a large part of the left side of his shirt was saturated with fresh blood. Theon was a little disconcerted, but he stripped off his gloves and subsequently his shirt and realized that one of Euron’s fighters must have slashed him—a shallow stripe along his left ribcage.  
Theon looked at it, twisting his neck and decided the bleeding would probably stop by itself. He put his shirt back on in annoyance.  
It seemed maybe there were people who had better answers to these questions than Jon. Like the Daenerys’ assistant, on the beach. Whose name he couldn’t remember.  
He needed to start paying better attention. His sister, and doubtless himself, had doubtless gotten this information and more, but he had left it to Yara to worry about. Well, you’re in charge now, he told himself, whether you like it or not.  
Theon had still not eaten. He would eat and then he would find the girl.  
He forced himself to choke down some strange Dothraki flat-bread. He wasn’t hungry, but he had walked all night, and apparently lost some amount of blood, and he knew he should probably eat something. The squat, savage women that had taken over the kitchens offered him horse-meat, but he declined. Theon wondered whose horses they were slaughtering, and why they were slaughtering horses. He found himself often wondering what Jon thought of all this.  
Next, Theon began a very haphazard search for the girl, which proved fruitless and left him mildly lost in a maze of crumbling hallways. He wondered if Yara, in her gleeful investigations had happened down these same halls. He wondered if she was still even alive.  
By noon, he was dusty and tired but less enlightened than before, except in regards to the floor-plans of the seat of ancient Targaryen kings, and even then, he doubted he could find his way back to or even draw a map of any of the places he had been. Despite his best attempts to ignore it, he was dimly aware that his shirt was still steadily dripping with fresh blood.  
It was strange, because he had been quite sure he had escaped unscathed from the thing, and he certainly hadn’t noticed he had been injured. And yet, there it was. No one had mentioned it to him, the day before, or the day before that, either.  
Theon went back to his room and took a fresh pillow-case from the bed, and tried to staunch the bleeding, which worked for a while, and then not at all. How did I not notice?  
He sat by the fire, with the oversaturated pillow-case pressed against his ribs and wished the blood away.  
The bleeding wouldn’t stop—it seemed almost encouraged to continue by his attempts to discourage it. He cursed. It didn’t even particularly hurt—the fire, which was too hot, hurt more against his skin then the damn thing. But it wouldn’t stop bleeding.  
Eventually, he got up, and did his best to secure the now-scarlet pillow-case to his ribs. He wondered if Targaryen royalty had laid their snowy heads against it.  
Theon doubted there was a master at Dragonstone, and he didn’t particularly want to see one if there was. He supposed he could go ask the Ironborn to help him, but he wanted that even less. He was standing outside his room, deliberating just what to do, and whether he would be able to sew the thing up himself (he doubted it), when he saw the sturdy friend of Jon—Ser Davos?—ambling down the hall. He fixed Theon with a concerned stare.  
“Are you alright?” he asked gruffly.  
Theon realized he must have looked very lost.  
“I’m fine,” said Theon, still awkwardly holding the pillow-case against his ribs, “I just realized—”  
“Are you hurt?” asked Ser Davos, “Who did this to you?”  
“Oh, no one, here,” said Theon, “it’s from before…well, from the…when Euron, my uncle—”  
“I can help you with that,” said Ser Davos, “No decent smuggler doesn’t know how to stitch a wound.”  
Is he a knight or a smuggler?  
“There’s no need—” protested Theon.  
“I insist,” said Davos.  
Davos went away and returned shortly after with a leather bag.  
“I never travel without this,” he said cheerfully.  
“Are you sure Jon—” began Theon.  
“It’s no problem,” said Ser Davos, “no one wants you to bleed out. Or bleed at all.Take off your shirt.”  
Theon realized with sudden misgiving that there were worse things to see than a swipe of an Ironborn axe, but there wasn’t much else to do.  
“This isn’t too bad,” Davos scoffed, and sewed it up adroitly, “take these out in a fortnight or so. If it starts to redden and swell, it’s probably infected, and then you’ll need to find an actual maester, so keep it clean, and don’t itch it. Whatever you do, don’t itch it.”  
“Thank you,” said Theon, “I’ve seen worse work from a maester.”  
“Aye, they don’t teach stitching very well, in the Citadel, or at least they always seem to forget it quickly, if they do learn it.” said Davos, chucking his things back in his bag, “but when you’re out on the open sea, and wanted by the crown, you learn these things fast, and well…or you die.”  
“You’re a smuggler?” asked Theon.  
“I was,” said Davos, “And then I was Stannis’ Hand. I’m not ashamed to say it. And now, I’m with Jon.”  
“Stannis died,” Theon said, half question, half-statement, just to see if he was right.  
“Aye,” said Davos, “Or at least he hasn’t been heard from since.”  
“You weren’t there?”  
“No, I went back to the Wall after the bastard robbed us of our provisions. We were never the same after that. It’s incredible what a few men can do in the middle of the night.”  
“Twenty, I’m sure,” said Theon.  
“What?”  
“Twenty. It was always twenty. Probably the highest number he could count to.”  
“Ha,” said Davos, amiably “I didn’t know you were funny.”  
Theon was taken aback at himself.  
“Clearly, he could count beyond twenty,” he amended, “It was a joke.”  
“I realized that,” said Davos.  
“Right,” said Theon, suddenly uncomfortable.  
“Jon doesn’t know if you know if Bolton is dead,” said Davos.  
“I know.”  
He hadn’t known.  
“Good,” said Davos.  
“Jon said he wasn’t allowed to leave here,” said Theon anxious to change the subject.  
Davos laughed, “It’s nothing to worry about. A lover’s quarrel at best… Well, it will be soon. Don’t let tell him I said that.”  
Theon was taken aback, “I though he came here to mine, not to court the queen.”  
“He did,” said Ser Davos, “and he is, but now he’s doing a little courting as well, it seems.”  
“Would a Snow really be the best match for her?” asked Theon.  
“Well, they haven’t gotten to marriage negotiations,” said Davos, “but I think the King in the North would be the best match for her, aye.”  
It took Theon half a heart-beat to realize Davos was talking about Jon and not Robb.  
“And have you seen his pretty black locks?” added Davos, “I think she can overlook his bastardy for that if not for the North.”  
“Well, she is very beautiful,” said Theon perfunctorily.  
“Jon certainly thinks so,” scoffed Davos, “I have a wife. Marya. She wouldn’t like me commenting on the beauty of lesser women. It would hurt their feelings, and she has a kind heart.”  
“Do you miss her? Your wife?” said Theon.  
“I do,” said Davos, “and my sons…especially the ones that are dead.” His face darkened. “I wonder if she knows. Sometimes I hope she doesn’t. Sometimes, I hopes she does so I don’t have to tell her.”  
Theon wasn’t sure what to say.  
“My mother was never the same after my brothers died,” he offered, and instantly regretted it.  
“Losing sons is hard,” said Davos, “or daughters for that matter.” He looked very sad.  
“Well, thanks again,” said Theon, sorry for dampening Davos’ mood.  
“It’s nice to have something to do,” said Davos, “Jon is off puttering in his mines, and things are very quiet.”  
“Do you know when the Queen will return?” asked Theon.  
“That I do not,” said Davos.  
Davos left him after that, and Theon was left alone. He wondered how exactly he was supposed to feel, now that Ramsay was dead. He imagined something like satisfaction. He briefly tried to picture what exactly it would look like, hoping to conjure up some sort of joy, but he couldn’t. He could picture Robb, bloodied and limp, mutilated by arrows and choking on blood, but he couldn’t do it with Ramsay. Ramsay, who followed him all the way to Dragonstone, lurking in shadows and stealing his uncle’s face and twisting his thoughts against him would never die, all while Robb would so easily, staggering and twitching and sinking into puddles of blood hour after hour if he let him. What’s wrong with you, Greyjoy?  
\---  
The Queen returned the next day, on the back of her hulking dragon. She wandered Jon’s enigmatic mines. She called for counsels to which Theon was not invited. She did not speak with Theon.  
Theon grew increasingly irritated at how difficult it was to gain audience with Daenerys. Every day he spent in Dragonstone was a day Yara suffered. He felt guilty doing nothing, but there was nothing he could do if Daenerys wouldn’t talk to him.  
Everyone else seemed to have some sense of urgent purpose which sent them rushing from place to place with an increasing sense of frenzy, despite the fact that as far as Theon knew, none of their sisters were being held captive by a veritable madmen.  
Daenerys was never available. Nor was Missandei. Nor was the Mormont who suddenly appeared out of the ether. Theon rarely saw Jon, because he always down in his mines or with Daenerys, and Ser Davos was always close behind.  
Even the odious Lannister dwarf, who was Theon’s last choice when it came to making contact, seemed to be constantly inaccessible—lurking behind closed doors, pushing around little pieces of carved wood as if that would win a war.  
No one would talk to him. No one would help him. Theon felt as if he was being increasingly forgotten. He took out Davos’ sutures and watched the Ironborn axe-wound heal up into scab. He wondered how long he had been at Dragonstone.  
Theon went down to see what his Ironborn were up to and found the had made no progress on the ship, which Theon learned with unsurprised disgust, was named The Crustacean. Not exactly something to inspire fear in the heart of his uncle, even if it wasn’t filled with leaks.  
The Ironborn had grown very comfortable with the very inaction that made Theon increasingly, unbearably uneasy. Everytime he tried to confront them about their duties, they were belligerently, incoherently drunk on fermented mare’s milk, and he couldn’t watch them like children every day and pursue an audience with Daenerys as well, so he left them to their drink and cursed them to drown in it.  
Theon woke up one day to learn Jon Snow and Ser Davos had left for the North. But they would be returning to Dragonstone. Or they might not. No one seemed terribly certain.  
Beyond expressing uncertainty at Jon’s plans to return, no one knew or at least would tell him they knew why Jon had left or what he was doing. Theon felt increasingly helpless as the world surged around him and past him, leaving him stranded.  
He hoped that now without Jon around, Daenerys would be easier to gain access to, but she continued to be elusive.  
Theon considered simply leaving Dragonstone behind, but the Crustacean wouldn’t make it very far in its present state.  
Theon was increasingly unsure of what he should do. He tried imagining what Yara would do, but other than some sort of conviction that she would do it with confidence, he was unable to conjure up what exactly her course of action would be. He found himself moving on to wondering what Jon would do, but the thought made him ashamed and the answer was even less clear. Growing up, Theon had never understood what was going on behind Jon’s frozen frown and his thoughts only felt more inaccessible now. Inexpliquably, Jon always seemed to know exactly what he was doing. And he always did it right. Theon decided he’d have better luck fighting a bear than trying to understand Jon Snow’s motivations.  
Theon woke up one night, soaked in sweat and screaming, which hadn’t happened in a long time. He couldn’t even remember what he had dreamed, but he had suspicions. No one seemed to notice, and Theon found himself wondering if Dragonstone was even populated at all, or even a real place at all.  
There was a disturbingly possible chance that he was quite mad, Theon realized, and the flickering phantoms, always beyond reach were just some figment of his imagination. Theon could believe it—all these dragons, and silver-haired Queens, and braided savages were fantastic enough to dismiss as nothing but strange, relentless dream. Another man, in his madness might have conjured up a good story—worthy of a song, even—but Theon realized if this was some hallucination he was entertaining, it was a damn miserable one. He hoped he wasn’t still down in the Dreadfort and having some sort of fever dream, because it was the worst escapism he had ever seen.  
Maybe you should wake up and get back to Ramsay, he thought, at least then you will only have to worry about yourself and not Yara.  
He half-heartedly tried to jolt himself out of whatever crazed dream he was in, but did not wake up a second time.  
Well, maybe I’m already dead, and this is purgatory.  
It didn’t fit any of the religions he had ever heard of, but it stood to reason that everyone had gotten it wrong, or the gods had devised some special punishment just for him.  
Theon found himself stumbling out of the castle into the darkness, not for the first time. He always found himself walking aimlessly, in circles in the middle of the night. It made him feel like he was doing something.  
The sound and smell of the sea was an easy assurance that Theon’s hell was real at least. His imagination had never been quite that good.  
But he could not face the sea. He was a disappointment to his forefathers, and his people and his god. He found himself at the mouth of Jon’s mine and unflinchingly, he wandered down into the darkness.  
There was a torch, smouldering and almost dead, lying in a brazier some distance from the mouth of the cave. Theon took it, and it revived a little as he swept it up.  
The torch illuminated the walls of the cave, but a little, leaving everything but whatever was directly in front of Theon a mystery.  
He was not afraid of the dark.  
The cave was cramped and eerie, and empty, branching out in various corridors. Theon kept to the main path. He doubted anyone would notice if he went missing, and he did not want to die, lost in the bowels of the earth.  
It was very quiet in the mines, but for the echoing of Theon’s foot-steps. Jon had not lied about the dragon-glass. The walls were studded with it, dark and rich and impenetrably oily. Theon wondered what Jon wanted with it. It was a brittle stone—not good for much other than forging trinkets and soft, weak weapons. There was nothing it could do that a sharp steel blade couldn’t do better.  
Theon stopped and pried a loose hunk of dragon-glass off the side of the crumbling walls. Loosened by someone else’s pick, it came easily enough, and he held it up to the torch. It shone dimly, swallowing the flame in its darkness. He shook his head and switched it to his other hand, intending to keep it, but then he felt like a fool and tossed it on the ground. It skittered off and got lost in the shadows. Theon instantly wished he had kept it.  
He continued down, deeper and deeper. The tunnel got tighter and smaller, and he found himself stooping. It was a bit like the crypts of Winterfell—the further you went, the darker and more dilapidated it got.  
Theon found himself beginning to wonder if the tunnel went on forever and if he should turn back. As he was considering it, but still going ever-forward, he suddenly stumbled out into a large cave. He stood for a moment in the near-darkness, getting his breath back after the suffocating airlessness of the tunnel. And then he saw the walls.  
Did Jon do this? He thought in confusion.  
He stepped closer and examined them in the dying glow of the torch.  
Where they were not covered in obsidian, the walls were strewn with scratchy, simple images -----swirls and lines and crude figures that he took to be people. People—big and little, and what looked like, on closer inspection, not be people at all, so much as monsters. Naked and skeletal, they brandished strange, inexplicable weapons.  
They’re nothing but children’s scribbles, Theon told himself, but he still felt increasingly uneasy.  
Whatever this was, and whatever Jon wanted with it, it wasn’t meant for Theon.  
He felt suddenly much like he had as a child when he had stumbled from his play, muddy boots and dirty hands into Lady Stark’s sept. He hadn’t known what it was, then, but he had known he had disturbed something in some horrible way that went beyond Robb’s usual habit of crashing into crockery with wooden swords. He had known he wasn’t wanted.  
Theon turned quickly and left the cave behind.  
\--  
The next day, Daenerys left Dragonstone and she took all three of her dragons. Theon watched her, or rather her dragons, dwindle into a tiny speck on the horizon, and then disappear altogether.  
Tyrion Lannister, rendered a captive audience to Theon by the desire to not discontinue breaking his fast -- which Theon noted with interest consisted of more wine than boiled wheat or whatever it was the Dothraki called breakfast-- simply to avoid an inquisitive Ironborn prince, curtly informed him that she had gone North. To help Jon. Who was in dire trouble.  
What sort of dire trouble? Theon asked. Tyrion Lannister said he was not sure. Theon did not believe him.  
Theon thought of Sansa, struggling to hold the North together, and decided it must be some sort of coup. So, Daenerys would help Jon’s sister, but not Theon’s. He couldn’t help but feel a wash of anger. Yara had fought for Daenerys. She had given her her ships. She had foresworn her way of life. But the Queen couldn’t even be bothered to acknowledge her capture. Theon decided it must be because the Targaryen was very much in love with Jon. It was clear from the way they walked together, and supped together, and flirted together, as if the world wasn’t in upheaval and people weren’t missing. Had Euron cut his sister’s tongue out? Had he raped her? Theon would never know because Daenerys would rather win Jon Snow’s affections.  
“It being such a dire situation,” said Theon with thinly veiled irritability, “I’m surprised no one asked me to go along. One would suspect that they might need all the help they can get.”  
“Well,” said Tyrion, “I think they thought they have three dragons, and Yara has only you, so…”  
They had thought no such thing, Theon knew. If they had thought of him at all, it had been that he was no use to them. He realized he was no use to anyone. Certainly not Yara. If she had had any hope that Theon might come for her, it had probably died long ago. Theon found himself wondering how she might feel, alone and abandoned. He realized he should probably have a very good idea but he wasn’t sure he did. At least she tried, he thought. You aren’t trying at all.  
The sky felt empty without the dragons.  
Theon wondered what he was supposed to do if Daenerys never returned. He imagined it might be difficult for an army of Northmen to defeat a dragon, not to mention, three, but history said it could be done.  
He went after Harrag, but couldn’t even find him.  
Theon rowed out to the Crustacean (a fitting name after all, Theon decided, since all it did was sit around and wait to die) and wandered the deck for a bit, fantasizing about sailing it off in pursuit of his uncle by himself.  
He justified the trip by attempting to take stock of the damages the ship had suffered, but he wasn’t really sure what he was looking at. He found a spare suit of armor while he was there, and he took it back with him. He realized he had probably gone through four different pairs of these Ironborn suits of armor in his life thus far and they had never done him any good.  
As the days went on, Tyrion got increasingly desperate for conversation—probably due to the lack of anyone but the Dothraki to talk to.  
Theon avoided him like the plague, and secretly wondered if Tyrion might die simply from a lack of people to say clever things to. He planned to find out.  
With Daenerys gone, Theon concentrated his attentions on the Ironborn, until his stubbornness won out theirs and they slowly took to making the Crustacean fit to sail.  
Theon decided that he would wait a fortnight at most, or however long it took to refurbish the Crustacean, and then he would leave.  
He was tired of waiting.  
The quiet satisfaction of finally having a plan made it easier to sleep. And breathe.  
Meanwhile, Tyrion finally cornered Theon one day, and either drunk on boredom or wine, Theon couldn’t particularly tell, vomited out a long and incoherent story about undead men, and White Walkers, and the end of the world, and his sister, Cersei Lannister, who Theon vaguely remembered, though not exactly in the demonic terms in which Tyrion took great pleasure in portraying her.  
It might have been an interesting story if Theon had been nine and the storyteller had not been Tyrion Lannister. As it was, it was not enough to have its intended effect and encourage Theon to spend more time with Tyrion.  
Still, one day, Daenerys returned. With Jon Snow, who had assumed a fragility he had not left with. And two dragons, where there should be three. And an undead man. In a box.  
Theon, who felt a strange form of sympathy for the caged creature, undead or not, would occasionally go and stand in the greathall, watching the box shake and shudder.  
Davos came across him one day, when he came to check on how the box was holding up.  
The box he and Daenerys had returned with had been deposited, trophy-like in the greathall of Dragonstone, and the fact that it contained a wight was Dragonstone’s second worst kept secret after the fact that Jon and Daenerys had probably kissed sometime after she lost one of her scaled children. Given that the fact that Jon’s love affair with the Targaryen queen was less of a mystery than the shaking, screaming box and its contents, Theon had serious doubts about Jon’s ability to keep anything secret very long.  
“Does he need to eat ever?” asked Theon as Davos poked at the perimeter of the box.  
“No,” said Davos. “At least not according to Jon.”  
“I see,” said Theon.  
“Do you want to see it before we go to King’s Landing?” asked Ser Davos, “I think Jon plans to make a great spectacle out of it, but it’s not the plan to surprise anyone on our side.”  
“I can wait,” said Theon, “I think I get the idea.”  
“Well, you Ironborn are pretty familiar with coming back from the dead, at least from a metaphorical sense. ‘What is dead, and all that’” said Davos.  
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Theon.  
“Well, I advise against this method of resurrection,” said Ser Davos. “It looks—and sounds-- unpleasant.”  
“Let’s hope Cersei agrees,” said Theon.  
“And your uncle,” added Davos.  
“He’s going to be there?” this was news to Theon.  
“Most likely.”  
“Good,” said Theon, “he needs to know I’m not finished with him.”

Theon was tired of waiting and this was not the end.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the abrupt ending. I suck at those.


End file.
